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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616329">In the light of all the lengthening days that still end too soon</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandchemicals/pseuds/coffeeandchemicals'>coffeeandchemicals</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Depression, Established Relationship, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 08:22:45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,314</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25616329</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeandchemicals/pseuds/coffeeandchemicals</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve was drowning.</p><p>Steve was drowning and he didn’t know why it had taken him <em>this long</em> to notice. </p><p>You would think that it would be easy to recognize. You would think that.</p><p>But it actually wasn’t.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>95</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>In the light of all the lengthening days that still end too soon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi everyone!</p><p>Please mind the tags on this one – I don’t want to trigger anyone. Let me know if I missed anything.</p><p>This is totally unbeta’d – all mistakes are my own.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Steve was drowning.</p><p> </p><p>Steve was drowning and he didn’t know why it had taken him <em>this long</em> to notice. </p><p> </p><p>You would think that it would be easy to recognize. You would think that. </p><p> </p><p>But it actually wasn’t. </p><p> </p><p>It had happened slowly at first – just little things causing small waves. Waves were fine, he could deal with those – just going under for a bit and then breaking through the surface, just bringing his head above water. It was fine, he could adjust to little waves. </p><p> </p><p>But, then, maybe, the waves got bigger, became swells that covered him, left him disoriented. But he could hold his breath. </p><p> </p><p>It was fine. He was fine. </p><p> </p><p>But his arms were getting tired of treading water. </p><p> </p><p>But his lungs were starting to ache, holding less and less air as his muscles fatigued. </p><p> </p><p>It was fine. He was fine. </p><p> </p><p>It didn’t matter that he was drowning. It didn’t matter that his lungs were screaming. It didn’t matter that his arms were cramping and his legs were hanging heavy, dragging him down. It didn’t matter that his vision was going black around the edges. </p><p> </p><p>It was fine. He was fine. </p><p> </p><p>And now he was pacing around the apartment, hands clasped together, fingertips digging into the backs of his hands – as if the pain could buoy him up, bring him up to the surface. And he’d get air. And he’d be fine. </p><p> </p><p>It was fine. He was fine. </p><p> </p><p>Steve sipped another shot of scotch. It was his fourth? – no fifth? – maybe sixth? – he couldn’t remember. It didn’t matter. It was supposed to shelter him, stop him from sinking – it hadn’t. It had thrown him into the water and collapsed on top of him, weighed him down, dragged him under. </p><p> </p><p>It was fine. He was fine. </p><p> </p><p>Steve reached for the scotch glass and took another swallow. He was muttering, quietly, under his breath. He didn’t want to wake Billy. He’d already caused him enough pain. Billy hadn’t known how bad Steve could get. Billy hadn’t known all the issues Steve would cause because his fucking brain was so fucking messed up. Billy hadn’t known <em>anything</em>. Until it was too late. Until they were together. Until they were <em>in love</em>. Until they were renting an apartment together, owning cats, letting their lives become so intertwined that it would be almost impossible to separate them.  </p><p> </p><p>Steve felt the guilt. He felt it all the time. Some days he couldn’t even look at Billy because he was afraid that he’d see disgust or impatience or weariness spread across Billy’s features. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine,” Billy had said. </p><p> </p><p>“I love you no matter what, you know that,” Billy had said. </p><p> </p><p>“I’m here for you. Sometimes you just need a bit of help,” Billy had said. </p><p> </p><p>“I’ll support you when you can’t support yourself,” Billy had said.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Billy had said.</p><p> </p><p>And Steve ached. Because he didn’t deserve that. Because he didn’t deserve someone as <em>good</em> as Billy – someone who loved him so unconditionally.</p><p> </p><p>And Steve didn’t know why he couldn’t <em>just be happy</em>. </p><p> </p><p>It’s not that hard. You have a good life. You’re healthy. You’ve got someone who loves you and who you love back. You’ve got friends, a job, a place to live, no debt. Why can’t you just snap out of it? What do you have to be <em>sad</em> about?</p><p> </p><p>Nothing. There was no reason for him to be feeling this way. </p><p> </p><p>It was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine. He was fine he was fine fine fine fine finefinefine– </p><p> </p><p>Steve stopped, rubbed his thumbs over the backs of his hands and continued mumbling. “You’re fine. Everything is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.” His litany wasn’t working. He could tell because he was speaking faster and faster, words almost running together, voice coming in pants. </p><p> </p><p>Steve tried to take a deep breath. But his lungs were aching. They wouldn’t listen to him. </p><p> </p><p>He closed his eyes and saw only his failures. One after the other. Piling on him. Weighing him down. Dragging him under. Burying him. </p><p> </p><p>He couldn’t get into college. He couldn’t get a job on his own – had to have his dad pull strings. All the sneers from his co-workers, isolating him – he didn’t know how to make it better. He used to be so <em>good</em> at making friends in high school, but now, he couldn’t make eye contact with people without a flush building up his neck and his palms starting to sweat. </p><p> </p><p>Steve would lie awake going over every single fucking interaction he’d had with anyone – the barista at Starbucks (he’d stumbled over the word “Americano” three fucking times, he wouldn’t be able to go back there again) – his colleague he’d asked about the project they were working on (she’d answered in that tone of voice that said she thought he was the stupidest person in the world. Steve had tried to maintain his composure – smile plastered on his face as he felt the lump grow in his throat, as he felt himself start to sweat. He’d managed to blurt out a quick thanks before he’d gone to the bathroom and fucking <em>cried</em>. Because he couldn’t handle anything, apparently). His conversations were on a constant loop in his head, getting louder and louder, driving him crazy. </p><p> </p><p>Steve had gotten home, seen Billy was there, making them supper. But he’d made a beeline for the scotch. He knew Billy didn’t like when he drank – “It’s fine,” Billy would say, “I just don’t like when you drink a lot.” Steve knew this, but with all the thoughts swirling around his head, he’d sometimes grab that second or third or fourth (or fifth or sixth or seventh) shot of scotch, sipping it, enjoying the burn, liking that the alcohol made him feel like he wasn’t himself – he wasn’t Steve with all these <em>issues</em>, he wasn’t Steve who couldn’t do anything right. </p><p> </p><p>“It’s fine. I just see what happens to you when you drink,” Billy would say. </p><p> </p><p>Steve didn’t know how many times they’d had this conversation. </p><p> </p><p>“You start out fine, y’know. A coupla drinks and you’re happy,” Billy would say, nodding. “But then you don’t listen to me, I bring you water, tell you to slow it down, because I know what happens,” Billy would say, mouth turning down in a frown, eyebrows furrowing. “Steve,” he’d say, “you’re a depressed person and the alcohol – it just makes it worse. I see that switch flip. And you’re no longer happy, you’re just fucking sad. I don’t like seeing it.”</p><p> </p><p>On good days, Steve would say he wasn’t a “depressed person” because that made him sound like he was defined by only that one thing. “I don’t like when you call me that – I’m a person and I have depression,” he’d say. </p><p> </p><p>Billy would apologize, but he didn’t know, he didn’t <em>understand</em> how his words dug into Steve’s brain, into his psyche, taken root, added to Steve’s cycling thoughts. Steve would wonder if that’s all Billy saw him as. Steve would wonder if he was actually just a “depressed person” – not someone multi-faceted – if that would be the only thing he was known for. </p><p> </p><p><em>Hi, I’m Steve, I’m a depressed person and that’s all I’ll ever be</em>.  </p><p> </p><p>On bad days, Steve wouldn’t say anything, just nod, and eye the scotch. And hear Billy’s words and everyone else’s circle around in his brain. </p><p> </p><p>Steve had stopped telling people after the someone had asked, for the probably hundredth time, “What do you have to be sad about? Can you just, y’know, focus on the positives?” Because, yes, he could focus on the positives, talk to someone, make sure he got regular exercise, do things he enjoyed – or used to enjoy. He could do all the things he was <em>supposed</em> to. All of them. And it wouldn’t matter. Because his brain chemistry was fucked up – “Brains are complicated things, Steve,” his most recent therapist had said to him. No shit. – so, he’d take his meds, maintain his routine, and battle those waves. </p><p> </p><p>It was fine. He was fine.</p><p> </p><p>Except he wasn’t fine. Not anymore. Not today. He’d pretended to be fine at work. He’d pretended to be fine through dinner, sipping his scotch slowly – “I’ve had a really long day,” he’d said to Billy, when he’d seen Billy’s raised eyebrow. He’d pretended to be fine when he and Billy watched TV. He pretended to be fine when Billy went to bed – “I gotta be up early,” Billy had said, “long day tomorrow.” Steve had nodded and said, “I’m just going to finish this episode, then I’ll be there.”</p><p> </p><p>Steve wasn’t fine. He poured himself another shot of scotch. He drank it. Then he poured himself another. He drank it. He was drowning. He was pacing. He was digging his fingernails into the webbing between his thumb and index finger. He was tearing at it, feeling the sharp sting of pain.</p><p> </p><p>There was no reason for this. There was no reason Steve should be feeling this way. No fucking reason at all. </p><p> </p><p>“You’re fine. Everything is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine. You’re fine. Everything is fine.”</p><p> </p><p>His hands stung, he saw blood pooling in the gouge – he hadn’t realized how much he was hurting himself – and he started to cry. Why did everything hurt? Steve slid down the wall, wrapped his arms around his knees, and rested his head on his forearms. He was trying to be quiet – he didn’t want to wake Billy. Be quiet. Do that one thing right. Be fucking quiet. When had it gotten this bad? When had he stopped treading water? When had he sunk so low that he couldn’t see the surface above his head?</p><p> </p><p>“Baby,” said Billy, his voice low, edged with sleep, “what’s wrong?” He dropped into a crouch in front of Steve and tried to catch his eye. </p><p> </p><p>“Why are you with me?” Steve asked, through muffled sobs. “I’m so fucked up.”</p><p> </p><p>“Because I love you,” replied Billy, and he ran his hands up and down Steve’s arms. “Sweetheart, look at me.”</p><p> </p><p>Steve shook his head. He couldn’t look at Billy. He knew what he’d see there – disappointment, impatience, resignation. “No. Sorry. I’m sorry, Billy, sorry, sorry, so fucking sorry.”</p><p> </p><p>“C’mere,” said Billy, he stood and tried to pull Steve up with him.</p><p> </p><p>“Why don’t you hate me?” asked Steve, but he let himself be pulled up. His fingernails went back to the webbing of his right hand. He dug in and pulled. </p><p> </p><p>“Baby, please stop,” said Billy, voice pleading, as he encircled Steve’s wrists with his own strong hands and pulled Steve’s hands apart. “C’mon, let’s sit down.”</p><p> </p><p>“You should hate me,” Steve whispered.</p><p> </p><p>“I don’t,” said Billy, as he sat down on the couch and pulled Steve down with him to sit between his legs. “I love you.”</p><p> </p><p>Steve sat and made to grab his hands again, but Billy wrapped his own arms around Steve’s arms and chest and held him in place.</p><p> </p><p>“Stop, please, baby. Stop hurting yourself,” Billy whispered into Steve’s ear. </p><p> </p><p>“Why?” asked Steve, “it’s not like it matters. I’m always going to feel like this. I should just end it.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” said Billy, squeezing Steve tighter to him. “Please don’t, baby. You’re gonna be okay.”</p><p> </p><p>“No, I’m not,” Steve replied. “Don’t you get that, Billy? I’m gonna be like this forever. It’s gonna hurt all the fucking time. I’m fighting myself all the time. And I’m just so tired.”</p><p> </p><p>“Please,” Billy whispered, “it doesn’t have to be that way. Okay? We’ll talk to your shrink. You just need some help, sweetheart.”</p><p> </p><p>“I’m always gonna need help,” muttered Steve, but he relaxed into Billy’s grip and felt Billy’s warmth through his tee-shirt. “Sooner or later you’re gonna leave me. It’ll be too much and you’ll leave me.”</p><p> </p><p>“No,” said Billy, his voice laced with emotion, “I’m not gonna leave you. I love you more than you’ll ever know.”</p><p> </p><p>“It’d be easier,” said Steve, not sure if he was talking about Billy leaving or Steve ending his own life.</p><p> </p><p>“Not for me,” said Billy, shifting so he could look Steve in the face. “It’d kill me if something happened to you. You’re stuck with me until the end.”</p><p> </p><p>Steve tried to shift to look away. He couldn’t hold Billy’s gaze – all he could see was fear and sadness and worry on Billy’s face. </p><p> </p><p>And guilt hit Steve in the gut. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. Steve felt like he was going to spend his entire life apologizing for his brain and its fucked-up chemistry.</p><p> </p><p>“It’s okay, baby, you’re okay,” said Billy, “it’s okay, you’re okay.” He rocked Steve and continued to mutter those words until Steve fell asleep on his chest.</p><p> </p><p>Billy had his own litany.</p><p> </p><p>Billy had his own litany and he used it every time Steve got like this.</p><p> </p><p>Sometimes Billy could see it coming, see Steve spiralling, and he’d be able to stop it, pull Steve back, throw him a life-preserver. Sometimes it snuck up on Billy and he’d find Steve huddled on the floor, drunk and crying, unable to pull himself out of whatever glitch he was stuck in. And Billy would dive in after him and bring him back. He’d spend the night holding Steve, making sure he didn’t hurt himself, trying to convey how much he felt for Steve by squeezing him tight – <em>I love you, I can’t live without you, you hurting yourself hurts me, you’re not alone, you’re okay, I love you more than anything, love, love, love, forever, always</em>. And Steve would apologize the next day and he’d change his meds and keep fighting.</p><p> </p><p>And Billy would be whatever Steve needed him to be – lover, friend, confidant, defender, protector, rock in the middle of the ocean. Because Steve was everything Billy needed and Billy refused to lose him.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>The title comes from <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=allpSRzVzwg&amp;list=FLVtehnxnlWbnuGB4rKsi_HA&amp;index=1148">Seasons</a> by Said the Whale. It’s such a beautiful song. </p><p>I’ve drawn from my own experiences with depression for this work – but everyone has different experiences. Depression fucking sucks.</p><p>I don’t want to offend anyone - if I have or if you want to chat, please send me a message on tumblr (You can find me @ <a href="https://coffeeandchemicals.tumblr.com/">coffeeandchemicals</a>) or leave a comment.</p><p>As always, I appreciate all feedback!</p><p>Stay safe, everyone &lt;3</p></blockquote></div></div>
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